Chapter 12

Andreas rode through the darkened streets, his bike growling beneath him as he cut through the city like a blade. The air was cool against his skin, but there was a weight in his chest that had nothing to do with the cold. His mind drifted, the familiar hum of the engine usually enough to drown out stray thoughts. Tonight, though, something felt off. The buzz in his earpiece broke the silence.

"Yo, hermano," came Xavier’s voice, calm but with an edge of something Andreas couldn’t quite place. "You’re not gonna believe this, but that van you’re tailing? It’s Ramone’s."

The name hit Andreas like a punch to the gut, but he didn’t flinch. He tightened his grip on the handlebars, the subtle twist of his fingers betraying his reaction. “Our Ramone?” he asked, his voice quieter, edged with disbelief, though deep down he knew the answer already.

“Yeah, hermano. It’s him. Your old friend. You know where he lives.”

Andreas didn’t need an address. The moment Xavier said Ramone’s name, the memories came flooding back—the good and the bad. Ramone had been like a brother once, back when they were both running the same streets, dreaming of something better. But life had a way of splitting people apart. Ramone had taken a darker path, and Andreas had watched him drift further into the shadows.

“Damn,” Andreas muttered under his breath. The weight of what was coming settled heavily on his shoulders. There was a time he might’ve tried to talk sense into Ramone, to save him from himself. But that time had long passed. He revved the engine, the roar of the bike cutting through his hesitation. Andreas was gone now. Zorro had to handle this.

The bike roared as Zorro turned down the familiar streets, his destination clear in his mind. He didn’t need Xavier to guide him—he knew exactly where Ramone would be. The neighborhood hadn’t changed much, still the same rundown buildings and cracked sidewalks they used to walk together. Only now, everything looked darker, more broken. It was as if the place had decayed right alongside Ramone’s life.

As Zorro approached the old project building, he could hear the faint sounds of gunfire from a movie playing inside. Desperado. He recognized it instantly. Of course, Ramone would be watching that—half out of his mind and still pretending he was the hero in his own story. Zorro parked the bike and pulled off his helmet, the cool night air hitting his face. Andreas might’ve hesitated here, might’ve remembered the times they laughed and fought side by side. But Zorro didn’t. He wasn’t here for the past—he was here to get answers.

With a quick motion, Zorro reached behind his head and unhooked the chin strap of his hat, letting it swing free from where it had been resting against his back. He pulled the hat forward and placed it on his head, adjusting the strap under his chin. The weight of the hat felt familiar, a sign that the transformation was complete. Andreas was gone—Zorro was in control now.

Zorro approached the door, his steps slow and deliberate. The moment his boot touched the cracked pavement in front of Ramone’s apartment, Andreas didn’t exist anymore. There was no room for hesitation, no space for sentimentality. The man inside wasn’t the boy Zorro once called a brother—he was just another obstacle, another job that needed to be done. The flickering streetlight above cast long shadows on the graffiti-covered walls, the faint sounds of Desperado still spilling from the half-open door.

Zorro knocked, sharp and firm. He could hear movement inside—shuffling footsteps, a curse muttered under Ramone’s breath. The door creaked open, and there he stood. Shirtless, sweat glistening on his skin, his eyes bloodshot and glassy. Ramone grinned lazily, barely recognizing the danger in front of him.

“Halloween already?” Ramone slurred, waving a gun in Zorro’s face like it was a toy. “This is some good shit.” Ramone blinked, his lazy grin faltering as the haze of drugs lifted just enough for him to realize something was wrong. He looked at Zorro again, his brain slowly piecing it together. This wasn’t some joke, some casual run-in. There was a coldness in Zorro’s eyes that cut through the fog in his mind.

Ramone’s hand tightened instinctively around the gun, his smile gone, replaced with a growing sense of dread. He raised the weapon, but he was too slow. Zorro moved like a shadow, grabbing Ramone’s wrist and slamming it into the doorframe with a brutal crack. Ramone’s fingers went limp, the gun clattering uselessly to the floor as he let out a pained cry.

Before he could even react, Zorro’s boot connected with his chest, sending him flying backward. Ramone’s body crashed into the coffee table, the cheap wood splintering beneath him as he tumbled through the mess of drugs and syringes scattered across the floor.

Zorro stepped inside, shutting the door with a quiet finality. There was no room for hesitation now. Whatever spark of recognition might’ve been in Ramone’s eyes was gone. Andreas wasn’t here anymore—only Zorro.

Ramone lay sprawled on the floor, gasping for breath, shards of the coffee table pressing painfully into his back. His eyes darted around the room, trying to piece together what had just happened. The drugs still clouded his mind, but there was a creeping sense of dread now—a feeling that the man standing before him wasn’t just another thug.

Ramone’s breath hitched, and his hand instinctively shot out for the machete lying nearby. Something in his foggy brain screamed that he needed to fight back, but as his fingers brushed the handle, a flash of silver stopped him cold. The flat of Zorro’s blade came down hard, slamming his hand away with a sharp metallic thud. Ramone let out a sharp cry, cradling his throbbing fingers as the reality of his situation began to settle in.

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He blinked up at Zorro, something almost familiar about the figure looming over him, but he couldn’t place it. There was something about the way he moved, the calm precision… but no, it couldn’t be. Ramone’s mind raced, but the drugs, the fear, the pain—they all jumbled together.

Zorro pressed the tip of his sword against Ramone’s throat, the cold steel drawing a thin line of blood as it dug into his skin. Ramone’s heart pounded. Whoever this man was, he wasn’t here to talk.

Zorro leaned in slightly, his voice low and edged with a calm menace. “Homes, you’re going to tell me where the girl is, or I’m going to cut you so bad you’ll wish I didn’t cut you.”

Ramone blinked, trying to process the words through the haze in his brain. There was something in the tone—familiar, almost—but his mind couldn’t hold onto the thought long enough to make sense of it. He was still clinging to his last scraps of defiance, the stubborn streak that had kept him alive this long.

“I ain’t telling you shit,” Ramone spat, though his voice wavered, the bravado already starting to slip.

Zorro didn’t blink, didn’t hesitate. With one smooth motion, he dragged the tip of his sword across Ramone’s throat, carving the first line of a “Z.” A thin trickle of blood followed the blade’s path, and Ramone flinched, his breath catching as the pain hit him in a sharp wave.

Ramone’s eyes widened, his pulse quickening, but the stubbornness was still there, buried beneath the fear. There was still a part of him that thought he could survive this, that he could outlast whoever this was.

Zorro's grip tightened on the hilt of his sword as he leaned in, the blade pressing just enough to keep Ramone’s attention locked on the edge between life and death. His voice was cold, without a trace of empathy. “Where is she?”

Ramone’s breath hitched, his mind reeling as he tried to process the question. The girl—of course, it was about the girl. But his head was spinning, and his mouth was moving before his brain could catch up. “I ain’t telling you shit,” he growled, though his voice cracked under the weight of fear that had started to creep in.

Zorro’s eyes narrowed. Without a word, he dragged the tip of his sword across Ramone’s throat, carving the second line of the “Z.” The cut was deeper this time, and Ramone let out a strangled gasp, his hand flying to his neck but freezing short of touching the wound. Blood dripped down in a slow, steady stream.

Ramone’s pulse pounded in his ears. He was losing control fast. The pain, the terror, the unfamiliar precision of the man in front of him—it was all too much. He wanted to fight, to hold on to the toughness that had kept him alive this long, but every instinct was screaming at him to talk. There was something maddeningly familiar about the way Zorro moved, the way he pressed for answers—but his brain, clouded with fear and drugs, couldn’t make the connection.

Zorro’s patience was wearing thin. He straightened slightly, the sword still at Ramone’s throat, but now he hovered over him like a shadow ready to strike. His voice dropped, quieter, more menacing. “Where. Is. She?” Each word was delivered with a calm that made the threat even sharper.

Ramone’s breath came in shallow, ragged bursts, the pressure building as the blade hovered close enough to remind him of the pain. He wanted to hold onto the last scraps of bravado, but his body was betraying him. Sweat dripped down his face, mixing with the blood trickling from the fresh wounds on his neck.

The silence stretched out between them, Zorro’s eyes locked on Ramone, waiting. The moment felt like a noose tightening around his throat.

“You’re wasting your time,” Ramone muttered, but the words were weak, hollow. He could feel the panic rising in his chest, a pressure building behind his eyes as the realization hit him—he wasn’t going to win this.

Zorro’s eyes flicked to the unfinished “Z” on Ramone’s neck. With precise, calculated force, he carved the final line, completing the mark. Ramone flinched as the blade cut deeper, the pain searing through him. His defiance cracked, and the fear he’d been holding back came rushing forward, threatening to drown him.

Zorro pulled back slightly, his sword still poised, but now raised as if ready to deliver the final, killing blow. The cold steel gleamed in the dim light of the apartment, the air thick with the smell of blood and sweat. His voice, now barely a whisper, cut through the tension like the edge of his blade. “I’m out of patience, homes.”

Ramone’s entire body trembled. His bravado, his defiance—all of it crumbled in the face of the reality that Zorro wasn’t bluffing. The sharp sting of the “Z” on his neck was still fresh, a constant reminder that one more wrong word could be his last. His breath came in shaky gasps as his vision blurred from the pain, fear, and the drugs still in his system.

“Wait! Wait!” Ramone’s voice cracked, the last trace of resistance gone. His body convulsed as a wave of terror overwhelmed him, and in his panic, he soiled himself, the shame mixing with his fear. “She’s... she’s at the docks! Near the old warehouses!” His words tumbled out, frantic and desperate, as he sobbed. “Please, man, don’t kill me! I told you! Please!”

He was barely holding himself together, on the verge of breaking down completely, his chest heaving with barely contained sobs. Everything he’d been trying to hold back had finally shattered, leaving him a quivering mess on the floor.

Zorro stood over Ramone for a moment longer, his eyes cold and unreadable as he surveyed the wreckage of his former friend. Ramone lay bound and trembling on the floor, soaked in sweat, blood, and fear. The man’s sobbing was faint now, barely audible over the sounds of Desperado still playing in the background. The chaos of the movie was a fitting soundtrack to the destruction in the room.

Zorro glanced at the fresh "Z" carved into Ramone’s neck, its lines dripping with blood, marking the end of any resistance. He had the information he needed. Calmly, he wiped his blade against the tattered remnants of Ramone’s shirt before lifting the sword, and with a sharp, satisfying motion, he slammed it into its sheath. The sound echoed through the small apartment, a final punctuation to the job.

Without looking back, Zorro turned on his heel and walked toward the door. He knew exactly where to go now. The docks. The girl was there, and that was all that mattered. As he opened the door, the cool night air hit him like a wave, refreshing, clearing the last traces of emotion from his mind. The door clicked shut behind him with quiet finality, leaving Ramone to sob into the wreckage of his own life.

Zorro stepped into the night, his next move already in motion.